Fascination
by cleverlittlegingerbatch
Summary: Moriarty makes John Watson his first pip, but doesn't realize precisely with whom he's dealing.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson has been berating himself for the past hour and a half. He's standing on the terrace of the National Gallery wearing a green parka with fur on the hood. It rustles softly when people walk too close. It's zipped almost all the way up to his stubborn chin so that the foaming crowds buffeting him can't see the explosives strapped to his body.

_Fucking great lookout, Watson,_ he thinks bitterly. _Walking right into a trap._ Had he learned nothing in Afghanistan? His instincts had remained sharp for months after being invalided home from the war with a bullet wound in his left shoulder and a limp he still doesn't understand. Then civilian life, London life, had lulled him into a sense of security. He doesn't check over his shoulder every few minutes, allows himself to become distracted as he walks - stumps - around the city. That's how he got into this mess - an ambush from the back, his cane kicked out from underneath him, a fight he couldn't hope to win, not with this leg. A doctor himself, he knows nothing happened to his damn leg but it hurts almost all the time.

Except now. The hatchet-faced man with the broad grin and dead eyes had taken his cane, but John hasn't noticed even a twinge after 90 minutes of standing still. Shifting his weight carefully, he closes his eyes, remembers the phone call, sifting through to find information he can use to escape.

**CALL NOW** came up as a text message on one of the cell phones the ugly man had given him moments before he melted into the crowd. He called the only contact in the second phone and waited for an answer.

"...Hello." When he hears the gorgeous baritone voice with the posh accent, his mind wants to scream _help me I'm strapped to explosives I'm going to die everyone here is going to die._

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes. I've been so looking forward to this." John tries to speak boldly even when reading the texts from the first phone, to show this unknown man that he's brave, unafraid, a soldier.

"Who is this? Who are you?"

"So hasty! You'll know soon, my dear. I've sent you a little puzzle. You have four hours. Tick tock goes the clock - especially for this doctor!" Looking his own death in the face, John's voice cracks slightly on the last sentence.

Another text from the first phone: **END THE CALL**. John broke the connection and was alone again in the sea of tourists.

John is shaken from his reverie when a passing pedestrian bumps him slightly - a mild admonishment for standing still in the middle of the steps. He barely notices. His eyes are on the buildings around him - the gallery behind him, Trafalgar Square and Nelson's Column in front. King George V not too far away. The Canada House to his right. Obviously, there's a sniper on him. This does little to rattle John - he too well knows the weight of the crosshairs.

Three hours and 25 minutes have ticked by and John has come up with very little in the way of a plan. The sniper could be anywhere, though most likely in front, in Trafalgar Square. John can't rule out the Column even though there's no way to get to the top - these people clearly don't work within regular rules.

With that realization, John also throws out the rules. It's obvious no one is coming for him. Sherlock Holmes has failed, but John is not going to die for a game that, frankly, has nothing to do with him. Once again, he can rely only on himself. Fortunately, John Watson didn't survive Afghanistan more or less intact by not learning how to do just that. He slows his breathing, closes his eyes, focuses on the explosives strapped to him instead of the clock ticking louder and louder in his head.

Lightweight even for the amount, so most likely plastic. The explosives are in casings, so he couldn't see the color when they were being put on, so it's most likely either C-4 or Semtex. Considering the circumstances, C-4 wouldn't make sense as it can't be detonated with a gunshot. Though Semtex doesn't normally detonate in response to impact, John is not willing to take chances. Twice as explosive as TNT, the amount John is wearing could raze not just Trafalgar Square, but also the Gallery behind him and everyone in the vicinity.

With the makings of a plan in his head, John starts watching the people around him. First thing he needs is a large group that he can blend in to until he's safely out of range of the sniper. Then he can divest himself of the explosives and alert someone that a crazy person is kidnapping people and strapping bombs to them.

It's late afternoon, past time for most tour groups, but luck is on John's side. A group of about 20 Americans strolls in front of him and, with a prayer and a tightening of his jaw, John insinuates himself between three of them. Quizzical looks are thrown his way, but his adrenaline is high and he doesn't notice. With a calm he doesn't feel, he keeps pace with the group until the pass the George V. He ducks behind the trees lining the next street over. He freezes, waiting for screams or gunshots or... _something_.

Silence.

He's escaped.

John crouches for long seconds in his hiding place, attempting to bring his heart rate back to a normal pace. He's still straining his ears to hear the (in his mind) inevitable spray of bullets into Trafalgar Square - the sniper's retribution for John's escape. When they don't happen, he begins to wonder if there even _was_ a sniper, or if that was just implied to keep him in line. Either way, he's escaped. Now, the slightly trickier part - what to do with the explosives he's wearing? Though he's got a pretty good idea of what's in the canisters, an expert is necessary to explain how to properly dispose of it. Scotland Yard it is.

Next - transport. He looks terribly conspicuous in the parka. It's the middle of April, after all. London's weather can be quite dismal, but it's not yet gotten to the point of wearing arctic gear. Besides, if the hypothetical sniper is looking for him, they'll be looking for the coat. On the other hand, he doesn't want to inadvertently detonate anything while taking it off of his body. He dithers for a moment, then remembers the phone - it's still in his pocket. Maybe this Sherlock Holmes can be of some use after all.

He extracts the mobile carefully, then calls the number. It's answered on the first ring.

"Your puzzle was - "

"This is Captain John Watson, I've escaped and I need your help." John hisses urgently into the phone.

There is silence on the other end.

"Did you not hear me? I'm wearing a vest made out of what I think is Semtex. An explosives expert needs to come down here and help me so I don't blow up all of Trafalgar Square."

"I solved the puzzle. What do you mean you escaped?" It's the same posh baritone voice as before, but John is not remotely interested in anything other than his safety and that of everyone around him at the moment.

"If you're not going to talk to anyone, put someone on the bloody phone who can help me." John spits out the words, growing more frantic with every passing moment. He's beginning to garner some questioning looks and the hatchet-faced man could be searching for him now...

He hears the phone being passed to someone else. "This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, what is your precise location?" John describes his hiding place with as much detail as he can as quickly and quietly as possible. The DI promises to have someone there within minutes, then hangs up.

Sweat is pouring from John's body. The heat, the adrenaline, everything is starting to catch up with him. He can feel his hair plastered to his head. Even his socks are damp. Still, his hands are steady and his leg still doesn't hurt, which registers as out of the ordinary but nothing to be concerned with at the moment. He can taste rain in the air when he pulls in a deep breath. The smell of food wafts on the breeze, and John is astonished when his stomach rumbles - hunger seems too commonplace an idea after everything that's happened to him today.

The phone in his pocket rings.

He starts violently, then answers it even though **BLOCKED** shows on the caller ID.

"Johnny boy, you've flown the coop." The voice is deep, dark, Irish-accented. It freezes the blood in John's veins. This isn't the man that kicked his cane out from under him, abducted him, strapped a bomb to him - but he's the one that ordered it done. "Clever, doctor, very _witty_. I see you've phoned the Yard. Though I'm not surprised, I'm a little... disappointed. I'd hoped we could have some more fun, just us, but I won't worry." Words stick in John's throat - how can this man sound so cavalier about what's happening? "I'd better be off, but we'll be seeing each other again very soon." The line disconnects, and at the same moment, someone lays a hand on John's shoulder. Instinctively, John reacts by grabbing the arm and jettisoning the rest of the body over his shoulder to the ground.

"Who are you?" he snarls, kneeling next to the silver-haired man in the sports coat who's now laying on the ground, gasping for breath.

"DI Greg Lestrade. You must be John Watson."


	2. Chapter 2

_Lestrade_. The name, though he's only heard it once, pulls John back to the present.

"Detective Inspector, I really do apologize for...this." John gestures ineffectually at the policeman, who's still lying on his back, trying to get some breath back in his lungs. "Just lie back, shallow, even breaths...so sorry..."

Greg waves away the apology. "Shouldn'ta come up from behind without announcing myself. One of the first rules of police." With John's help, he rises to a sitting position, then pulls out his phone to shoot off a quick text. Next thing John knows, several police officers gather around John. One introduces himself as Dimmock, the explosives expert. When he gingerly removes the vest from John's body, John has to stop himself from giving the slight man a proper snog right there. The parka and the vest are rushed away, presumably back to New Scotland Yard, but Lestrade tells John to stay put for a minute, relax. He gets his phone back out and makes a few calls.

John sits with his back against a low wall, his head in his hands, breathing deeply and with purpose. He recognizes the signs of shock coming on and wants to combat them as soon as possible. Since he'll be going in with Lestrade for questioning (he assumes), he wants to be prepared.

Soft footsteps tell him he's not alone.

Opening his eyes, he sees a pair of black-shod feet standing in front of him. He lifts his head, scanning up from the sensible shoes to well-tailored trousers to a long blue-black coat to the most aristocratic face John's seen outside of Buckingham Palace. The pale face is crowned with dark brown curls that spill over the man's high forehead. Flinty gray eyes are staring down at John with ill-disguised fascination. Full, luscious lips quirk in a half-smile when he notices John gaping up at him.

"Sherlock Holmes." It's the deep baritone from the phone call. "You must be Captain Watson."

John blinks. "Sherlock Holmes. You were more worried about how I escaped than the fact that I was covered in explosives."

"Yes."

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" Lestrade approaches cautiously, tucking his phone securely into his front jacket pocket. John's glad he's there, as he's not yet made up his mind as to whether he wants to punch Sherlock or figure out why he's so interested in the particulars of his escape.

"I wanted to meet our intrepid would-be hostage." Sherlock quips, not sparing a glance to the other man, instead keeping his gaze directly on John, who doesn't flinch.

"You could've met him back at the Yard if you'd stayed put like I told you to." Lestrade says, though his tone implies he knows exactly what Sherlock is going to say next.

"Just because you and my brother are copulating doesn't mean that you automatically become my handler." Sherlock whirls around and stalks away.

John gapes after him. "Christ, there's another one of him?" Lestrade blushes and mumbles something about his Holmes not being so tetchy. When John laughs, Lestrade looks relieved and suggests they get back to the Yard and out of open air. Sobering, John agrees - he may not be sure a sniper was on him, but he's not about to take more of a chance than necessary. Lestrade extends a hand, which John takes. After being levered to his feet, John steadies himself against the older man's shoulder for a moment before they cautiously move to the cars.

His leg twinges.

The small expanse between Lestrade's car and the door to New Scotland Yard is John's undoing. Now safe, his adrenaline has run out and his leg buckles before he's even gone halfway. Fortunately, Lestrade is there to catch him before he hits the pavement. The older man throws one of John's arms around his broad shoulders and supports him all the way to what must be the detective inspector's office. Gratefully, John sinks into a chair while Lestrade strides purposefully to the kitchen for some coffee. Closing his eyes, John rolls his head, popping a couple of neck joints. He sighs, settling, but flinches when his leg protests at being bent. The pain eases somewhat when he straightens it out in front of him, but beats dully in his head.

"It's psychosomatic, you know."

Every muscle in John's body tenses. Sherlock Holmes. _He hadn't heard him approach._ John clenches his jaw and curses silently. Six months ago, no one would have gotten so close without his knowing.

"I'm a doctor. Of course I know." John cringes at the note of resignation in his voice.

"Then why do you not do anything about it? There must be some form of treatment." Holmes doesn't sit in the other chair, nor does he remove his coat and scarf. Instead he stands, imperiously looming over John, just slightly too close for polite society. _Probably does it on purpose, the git._ John thinks. He thinks before answering, not wanting to give away too much.

"It's not that simple - " he begins, but Holmes continues unimpeded.

"You're in therapy, of course. That's obvious. She has you writing about your experiences both here and abroad. You suggested blogging even though you're a terrible typist." Holmes cocks his head, peering down his nose at John, who narrows his eyes. "You don't write often, certainly not daily as she's prescribed. Too painful to look closely at your pitiful life, obviously." John flinches.

"How could you possibly know any of that?" he snarls. Holmes looks entirely too pleased with himself. He opens his mouth again, but Lestrade finally returns with coffee for himself and John.

"Sherlock, you need to go. I have to talk to John about what happened." Lestrade carefully sets down the cups of hot liquid on his desk, then drops heavily into his chair. Holmes, entirely unruffled by the brusque treatment, fixes Lestrade with an intense look.

"Interesting." he murmurs after a moment. "Mycroft's been texting. He doesn't text when he can call. Spending more time than usual at the Diogenes Club lately, has he?" Holmes smirks when Lestrade blushes furiously.

"That's not important here, Sherlock. We need to catch this maniac before he tries something like this again." Lestrade takes a large gulp of coffee then swears loudly when he burns his tongue and lips. John catches Holmes' lips twitching in a smile and frowns.

"You're going to need me, Lestrade. This isn't just a normal criminal. The puzzle he set up earlier for me was elegant. Neat. None of you would've figured it out without me." Holmes is unabashedly arrogant and John can do nothing but stare. He waits for Lestrade's argument, but it doesn't come.

"You're right. God help me but you're right. We couldn't've solved that, much less in only a couple of hours." Lestrade sounds defeated. Holmes barely blinks. John looks between the two of them, desperately trying to figure out what's going on.

"Who are you?" he blurts out. He snaps his mouth shut - he'd not meant to say that. Suddenly he's on the receiving end of the most intense stare he's ever witnessed - and that's saying something, having served in the military. Holmes searches John's face, tracing every line and indent.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I'm the only one in the world - I invented the job. When the police are out of their element - which is always - " Lestrade rolls his eyes - "they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs." John can't seem to stop the words from being spoken.

For a moment, Holmes is speechless. John wonders how often that happens.

After several moments of contemplation, Holmes straightens his shoulders and sniffs slightly, as if mildly offended by an odor in the office. John looks to Lestrade, whose jaw is hanging slack. No help there.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Holmes asks suddenly. John furrows his brow - he's never met any of these people in his life, so how could he know?

"Afghanistan but how did you know -"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. Also the way you conducted yourself on the phone and how you were able to extract yourself from the sniper situation. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad but there was no sign of it when you put Lestrade out of commission or when you were walking back to the cars so it's at least party psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."

John's jaw doesn't do anything so gauche as to drop open in amazement. Instead it clenches once or twice before he purses his lips and nods. "That was... amazing."

"You think so?" Holmes' voice is calm and collected, but John sees the spark in his eyes. A spark of... something John can't quite put his finger on.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary." If John hadn't been studying Holmes' face right at that moment, he would've missed the slight lift of the left corner of his mouth that John took for a pleased smile.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?" John grins, enjoying the banter with this strange man.

"Piss off."

John stares at him for a moment before bursting in the first bout of proper laughter he's had since being invalided home. Holmes looks taken aback for a moment, then the small smile is back - and this time, it stays. Lestrade chokes on his coffee when he sees it. Holmes doesn't even spare him a look. He's too intent on John.

"You were right, you know." Holmes confides quietly after John's laughter subsides somewhat.

"I - _I _was right? About what?"

Holmes pulls himself up to his very impressive full height, gathers his coat around him and sweeps over to the door of Lestrade's office.

"The police don't consult amateurs." And then he was gone.

This time, John's jaw does drop. He goggles at the door, then looks around at Lestrade, who shrugs. "Yeah, he's always like that."

John looks back at the door, a small smile on his face. He feels lighter than he has in weeks and all because of this Sherlock Holmes.

"Now, Dr. Watson we have some questions about what happened today." John reluctantly turns away from the door (looking for one last glimpse of the detective) to Detective Inspector Lestrade.


	3. Chapter 3

(A/N: Thank you _so much_ to everyone who's read, favorited, followed, reviewed, ANYTHING this story! I'm having such a good time writing this, and having you guys along for the ride makes it even better. Also remember that feedback/reviews are love. 3)

Lestrade's interrogation takes a couple of hours. Unfortunately, John doesn't have a lot of useful information to impart. He was attacked from behind by at least two men bigger than he (though most men are bigger than John's modest 5'6" frame), a sack was shoved over his head and he was taken to a tiny flat in an unknown part of London (most likely close to Trafalgar Square but he can't be certain)(he is certain, however, that Sherlock Holmes would've known exactly where he was). There was only one man in the flat, the man who strapped an explosive vest to John's chest and placed him in Trafalgar Square. No names were ever mentioned.

"It can't possibly matter about names, though, can it?" John asks, frustrated. Lestrade has asked the same questions several times over and they're not getting any further than when they started. "Surely they'll've run out of town by now?"

"I must admit I'm surprised they allowed you so much exposure to one of their own." Lestrade says. He's divested himself of his jacket and has his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. The desk is littered with coffee cups and crisp packets from the vending machine down the hall. Someone named Sally Donovan had poked her head in briefly and Lestrade had asked her to bring in some nibbles. Her nose had wrinkled but she went.

"They must have thought the puzzle couldn't be solved. That's what he called it when I spoke to him on the phone - Holmes and the man who called while you were coming to get me." John is curious about this puzzle and the men who play with crimes for fun.

Lestrade scoffs. "He must not know Sherlock then. Never had a crime he couldn't solve." He takes a long drag from his lukewarm coffee. John wants to hear more about Holmes and his relationship with the Yard but doesn't ask - not the appropriate time and all that. Instead, he sips his tea - coffee reminds him too much of sun and sand and blood - and tries to recall anything else about the abduction.

An hour later, Lestrade calls it a night. He gives John his card and insists John call at any time if he feels like he's in danger or if he remembers something, even if it might not seem pertinent. As John leaves the office, he hears Lestrade pick up the phone and say the name "Mycroft." Recalling the name, he hurries away before he hears something he may regret later.

The way to the door is not complicated, but John takes his time. His leg aches from sitting for too long and the lack of adrenaline pumping through his body. Everyone has gone home for the night, making the building eerily quiet, though John only half-notices. He's too busy musing on how far he's come from what he said to his therapist not two days ago: "Nothing ever happens to me."

John stops just outside the door to breathe in the night air of London. He catches the faint musk of cigarette smoke before he hears, "Dinner?"

The voice rumbles through him, awakens a part of him he thought he left in Afghanistan. The reckless adrenaline junkie who put himself in the line of fire on purpose day after day. The man who voluntarily covered the front line and performed surgery on a helicopter. Twice.

Sherlock Holmes materializes from the shadows, a fire burning in his cold eyes, intent on John. John Watson knows a challenge when he sees one, and so far, he's not backed down once.

He raises an eyebrow and quips,

"Starving."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" John asks Holmes as they wait for their food to arrive. They're in a very cozy hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant owned by and named after a man called Angelo, who greeted Holmes as an old friend. He said anything on the menu was free for Sherlock and his date. John protested he wasn't a date, but it fell on deaf ears. Later Angelo brought a candle to the table. More romantic, he said. John allowed Holmes to order for him, as he knew the restaurant better. Angelo threw him a knowing smile and John surrendered. He could do worse than tall dark and handsome.

"Girlfriend... no, not really my area." Holmes murmurs. John stares for a moment, realizes his mistake.

"Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way - "

"I know it's fine." Holmes stares intently at John, as if memorizing him in this moment. He volunteers no more information.

"So you've got a boyfrien - "

"No."

John blinks a couple of times, unable to get a handle on this strange man but intrigued nonetheless. "So you're unattached then." Silence. "Like me."

They lock eyes over the candle. Holmes' gaze scorches through John's whole body. _What must this man be like in bed?_ The thought is unbidden, unwanted, and John is shocked at himself. Fortunately, their food arrives at that very moment, allowing John to avert his eyes from Holmes' and gather his thoughts, though he has a sneaking suspicion that the self-proclaimed "consulting detective" knows exactly what went through his mind and has cataloged all of John's responses. He smirks and John's sneaking suspicion is confirmed.

"I'm flattered by your interest, John, but I should tell you that I consider myself married to my work..." Holmes vigorously applies himself to cutting his chicken parmigiana into minuscule pieces. John's jaw has the indecency to drop open again before he begins sputtering.

"That's not - no, I didn't mean - I just meant - we both - "

John stops attempting to make sentences when he hears a rumbling chuckle from the other side of table.

"I know what you meant, John." Holmes' voice is soft, intimate. John blushes furiously. He knows Holmes is watching and is conscious of his every movement. Compared to the feline grace of his companion, John feels gauche and ill-bred.

"Where do you live, John?" Holmes asks at length.

"Just a small bedsit the army's letting me while I find something else. Haven't had much luck, though. Can't afford London on an army pension."

"You wouldn't want to be anywhere else, though, I imagine."

John laughs. "No. I love it here. I've been to most of the surgeries within walking distance of my flat, though none are hiring at the moment." At least, none are hiring an ex-army doctor with a tremor in his hand and a psychosomatic limp. He clenches his jaw in frustration as his left hand shakes. Holmes studies him for a moment, then sits back in his chair.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asks abruptly.

"Love it. Used to play the clarinet, myself." John answers easily, once again tucking into his spaghetti bolognese with renewed gusto.

"Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I know a flat in the center of London that we could afford if we split the rent."

"You're barking. In the center of London?"

"I know the landlady. She owes me a favor and said she'd reduce the rent if I could find someone with whom to share it." Holmes maintains eye contact and John resolutely refuses to look away. He raises an eyebrow.

"What kind of favor?"

"Her husband was set to be executed in Florida."

"And you made sure he wasn't?"

"Oh no. I ensured that he was."

A moment passes while John processes this, then he throws his head back and laughs for the second time that day. Holmes quirks his lips upwards in the semblance of a smile.

"Meet me there at 7 tomorrow. If you like it you can move in as soon as is convenient." Holmes throws his napkin on the table and stands to leave. John, still with half a plate of food left and an appetite to match, stares at him. When he begins to lay down his fork, Holmes waves at him to stay seated. "Just got a text, Lestrade needs me. Stay and eat. Tomorrow, 7pm." He begins to sweep away dramatically, but John stops him.

"I don't know where I'm meeting you - "

"The address is 221B Baker Street. Evening!"

And with a swish of coattails, he vanishes into the night.

John's cab pulls up in front of 221B Baker Street at five til 7 the next evening. He pays the driver the exorbitant fare, then extracts himself and his cane with difficulty. As he straightens, his cane slips off the curb and he feels himself falling. Before he hits the pavement, however, a strong hand wraps around his arm, arresting his fall. John feels himself being pulled upward and ends up flush against a long, lean torso covered in a silk shirt and wool coat. The air is knocked out of him but not because of any impact - it's the proximity to Sherlock that gets his heart beating faster and his blood humming through his veins.

_Bollocks._

John pushes away from Holmes faster and more abruptly than is polite. He focuses on getting his feet and cane on solid ground before he looks up at the facade of the building. It is tall and thin, made of light grey stone. An imposing black door with a silver knocker guards whatever might lay inside. A window above the door is emblazoned with "221B" in gold lettering. Everything about the places screams wealth and affluence. John already feels out of place and they haven't even gone inside. Suddenly he realizes that Holmes still has a hand on his shoulder and turns to him.

"Are you alright?" Holmes asks, pale eyes searching John's face.

"Yes, thank you." John's throat is dry and he fights an almost uncontrollable urge to lean back against Holmes' chest. "Happens about once a day. More if someone kicks it out from under me while I'm being attacked." John cracks a sardonic smile. Holmes stares at him for a moment, then the front door opens.

"Sherlock!" An older woman is on the front stoop, wearing all purple and a brilliant smile. She holds her arms out and waves the two men over. Holmes allows himself to be enfolded in a brief hug before introducing her to John as Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. She ushers them inside and up 17 steps to a spacious flat.

"Well this could be very nice. Very nice indeed." John says as he surveys the sitting room. It's an utter wreck - obviously the old tenant hasn't left yet. "It needs a bit of cleaning up, though." he says at the exact moment Holmes cries "That's why I've already moved in." John looks at him sharply, but Holmes is already breezing into the room, picking up bits of paper and straightening pillows. He stows a small pile of mail on the mantle, then ensures it stays there by sticking a large knife into the center of the pile. John merely looks amused, then sees the human skull farther down the mantle.

"That's a skull." he blurts out, pointing his cane at it. _Excellent observation, doctor._ he thinks, grimacing. Holmes glances up, then nods.

"Old friend of mine. Well, I say friend..." he trails off, giving John an appraising look. It is an oddly intimate look, and John tingles all over under the heat of it. He feels himself being pulled forward towards the other man.

"There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms." Mrs. Hudson bustles in with a tray of scones, then stops abruptly, looking around. "Sherlock, the mess you've made..."

"Of - of course we'll be needing two bedrooms." John stammers.

"Oh don't worry dear, we've got all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner's got herself some married ones." She speaks in a hushed voice, as though she doesn't want the married ones to hear her speaking of them.

Just as John is about to ask to see the second bedroom, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade strides into the room. If he's surprised to see John there, he doesn't show it. He looks right at Sherlock and says,

"We need you."


	4. Chapter 4

"Obviously." Sherlock is standing at the window, looking out into the street, but he tips his head slightly towards Lestrade's voice.

"This package was delivered to my office, but it's addressed to you, Sherlock." Lestrade holds out a small box, wrapped in brown paper. John can almost see the moment when Sherlock's brain moves into action. He takes the parcel in long, slender fingers and turns it over gingerly, examining it from all angles.

"You haven't opened it."

"No, but we got it x-rayed and we're pretty sure it's nothing dangerous."

"Splendid. I feel much safer." Sherlock quips off-handedly. He slits the tape on one end and slides what looks like a large jewelry box out of the paper. With infinite care, Sherlock pries open the box. Inside is a mobile phone. John lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and hears Lestrade do the same. Sherlock drops the box on the coffee table and begins to speak.

"New model Apple mobile phone - iPhone 4S. Never been used. Well, just the once to leave whatever message is on here."

"Message?" Lestrade asks. Sherlock doesn't roll his eyes, but his tone of voice when he speaks again is the equivalent.

"Yes, message. Ah, here." Having found the videos app and voicemail empty, Sherlock opens the voice memos app. A cheery and somehow simultaneously cold voice fills the small flat.

"Sherlock Holmes. Just the man I've been waiting for. I've been so looking forward to this, and even Dr Watson's little escape trick can't dull my excitement." Sherlock's pale eyes flick to John, whose insides froze at the first syllable. Dark. Deep. Dublin-bred. John nods once to the unspoken question in Sherlock's eyes. It's him. "You'll know it when you see it, dear." Five beeps sound, then the message cuts off. John grips the handle of his cane tightly.

"What have you found?" Sherlock breaks the eerie silence with a question to Lestrade, but he's looking at John.

"A body on the shore of the Thames, no ID. No sign of struggle. Will you come?" Lestrade is already halfway out the door. Sherlock waves him away while pulling his scarf and coat on.

"Not in a police car, I'll take a taxi. Mrs Hudson, I'll be out late, so don't wait up. Something cold for dinner will do."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"John, sit down, make yourself at home, have a cup of tea." And with a swish of coattails and a too-eager smile, he's gone.

"All that rushing about... my husband was the same way. You're more of the sitting-down type, I can tell. I'll get you a cuppa, you rest your leg."

"DAMN MY LEG." John explodes suddenly, without reason or real provocation. He instantly regrets his outburst; Mrs Hudson has been nothing but kind and welcoming and here he is complaining about his lot. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry - "

"Never mind dear, I understand. I have a hip." She bustles off in the direction of the kitchen. John collapses in an armchair and buries his face in his hands.

"You're a doctor." The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere. John starts, but not as much as the last time Sherlock snuck up on him. "In fact you're an army doctor."

"Yes."

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?"

"Yes." _Watson you are a genius at conversation._ John winces at his own inner monologue.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet." Quicksilver eyes sweep from the top of John's graying head to the toes of his sensible shoes. Attempting to suppress an incredibly aroused shiver, John licks his lips and makes an effort to string two words together.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." And too far in the other direction. John is just about to give himself up for a lost cause when he sees a strange, dangerous glint in Sherlock's eyes.

"Want to see some more?"

Without hesitation, without a moment's pause or consideration, John looks right back into those searching eyes and says three words:

"Oh, God yes."

With these three words, the two men spill out of the flat and onto the sidewalk in front of the flat. Holmes raises a long arm and a cab appears almost immediately. The detective slides in first, leaving John to make his slightly slower way into the car. As soon as the door slams shut, the cab eases into traffic. Holmes doesn't give an address but gives directions in his low, rumbling voice. His eyes are glued to his phone and his long, lithe fingers fly over the keys as he memorizes as much information as possible - weather conditions, tide times of the Thames, missing persons over the past 48 hours, police reports.

He pretends not to notice how close John is, how intimate the back of the cab is.

John watches London flash by, listens to Holmes giving directions. He's not using a map or anything - he just knows this city like the back of his hand.

"Amazing." he mutters under his breath, trying to hide a grin under his hand. Holmes' pale eyes slice to the doctor, who carefully schools his face to reveal nothing. The ghost of a grin quirks the corner of Holmes' mouth before he returns to the screen of his phone.

They eventually make it to a lonely, deserted stretch of bank - well, what usually would have been lonely and deserted. At the moment, it's crawling with police. The cab hasn't even stopped before Holmes is out the door and striding toward Lestrade. John pays the cabbie with the wallet that Holmes threw him before disappearing. Easing out of the car, John takes a moment to get his feet accustomed to the ground beneath his feet and cane before picking his way carefully to the knot of uniformed men.

"What do you think, John?" Holmes asks without preamble; John almost asks how the lanky man knew it was him, but then remembers his unique walking pattern and saves himself the embarrassment.

"Give us a mo', Holmes." John grunts softly as he stretches out his left leg enough that he can go down on his right knee beside the body.

"Sherlock, please." John's head whips up when he hears the murmured request - if he hadn't seen the detective's lips move, he almost wouldn't have believed the words really came from him. Their eyes lock for a long moment, and John thinks he sees a softening somewhere in the depths before Lestrade clears his throat.

"Got anything for us, Sherlock?" the older man asks.

"Give John a moment to give us his professional opinion, detective inspector." Sherlock's voice is soft, but there is an undercurrent of command. Lestrade looks as though he wants to argue, but John is checking the body with a briskness and confidence that keeps Lestrade quiet. After a few moments, John nods, then looks to Sherlock, who's been watching him, unblinking, the entire time.

"Smoke inhalation, from what I can tell." Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, which John takes as a sign to continue. "There's soot around his nostrils, for one thing. You can see that a good deal more mucus was secreted recently -" he points to a bit oozing that's pooled on the inside of the victim's nose, "and it looks like it might be... Lestrade, do you have a cotton ball - " John doesn't finish the sentence before Sherlock has passed him one. "Yep, dark grey. This man was in a fire, and recently."

"Sally, check the surrounding area for any fires in the past 24 hours." Lestrade barks, and the woman John saw at the Yard scurries away from weasely looking man with a sour look on his face. He then turns to Sherlock, who begins explaining everything he's found. John, however, isn't listening. Adrenaline is rushing though his veins, a thrill he hasn't experienced in much too long but his body remembers fondly. His head reels as he pushes himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane after staying on one knee for so long. This is why he became a doctor - to help solve mysteries. They may not always have been murders, but diagnosing is his own form of what Sherlock does - taking all the little symptoms and putting them together in a logical way to get to a solution.

"Fantastic." he hears himself say aloud, and then sees Sherlock preen a bit. He does not tell Sherlock that the fantastic was not for him - but for John himself.

It's not long before Sally Donovan returns bearing the news that there were no fires within the radius Lestrade specified. Sherlock's eyebrows snap together before looking at John. Knowing his medical knowledge is being called into question, he shakes his head - he knows what he saw and he told Sherlock exactly what that was. Satisfied, Sherlock turns to Sally.

"Look farther out. Lestrade, text me if you find anything." Turning his back on the lot of them, Sherlock whips out his phone as he begins to walk back toward the road. John looks around for a moment, wondering where he ought to go, but when he sees Sherlock with his arm raised for a taxi, the wind tossing his curls lightly, he knows exactly where he wants to be. Nodding to Lestrade and the rest of the team, he limps to Sherlock's side. He could be wrong, but Sherlock might have smiled when John arrives at his side.

"If that man was in a fire, why was his body taken to the riverbank?" John muses aloud as he and Sherlock ride along in the cab. They're on their way to St Bart's, where Sherlock wants to perform some experiments on the mucus John found. "Why not just let him burn?"

A phone rings somewhere in the cab. Though he's certain his mobile doesn't make that noise, John checks and finds it silent. Sherlock was using his when the noise started. Raising a quizzical eyebrow, the consulting detective fishes a second phone from an inside pocket of his coat. He answers it and puts the call on speaker. The feminine voice speaks haltingly, as if reading from a source that's writing while it's being read...

"I'm so glad you've found my puzzle, Sherlock. I should take points for using the doctor, but he most likely won't be much use." John raises panicked eyes to Sherlock's pale ones. He knows what's about to be said. "I'll give you 12 hours to figure this one out. If you don't, the doctor's replacement won't be as lucky as he was." The call is disconnected and the cab is deathly silent for a few moments. John's left hand trembles, and he grips his cane as tightly as he can. He tries not to think of the innocent woman wearing a new Semtex vest somewhere in London, praying for deliverance. Certainly the Irish madman won't make the same mistake he did with John - he'll have done some research this time and chosen a victim without the ability to escape. He wipes his right hand over his face, terrified of doing nothing, equally afraid to face this unknown killer. When Sherlock reaches over to place a long-fingered hand over his, he looks up, startled. There's a fierceness in Sherlock's eyes that warms John down to the soles of his feet. Together they can stop him.

Sherlock is uncertain as to why he knew he needed to touch John at that moment. Interpersonal skills are not his strong suit by any stretch of the imagination. Something about this man, though, makes him want to protect, not just solve. He keeps his hand on John's until they reach Bart's. It is comforting to have contact with another person, or perhaps it's just this particular person. When the cab pulls up in front of the hospital, John is again left to pay the fare, again with Sherlock's money - he'd forgotten to return the wallet. It can wait. In the lab, Sherlock is approached by a pretty young girl in a lab coat. John hangs back, waiting to be noticed or sent to do some errand.

"John, this is Molly Hooper. She works here. Molly, John." Sherlock waves his hand between them, then scurries away to set up his equipment. John shakes Molly's proffered hand.

"Dr John Watson. He's here a lot, is he?"

"Oh yes, always doing experiments." Molly smiles slightly, though her eyes are asking a million questions. "Are you working with him?"

"Got roped into it. He needed a doctor at a crime scene and I was an army medic - "

"Molly, stop chattering at John. I need him." Sherlock's voice cracks like a whip in the small space. John smiles apologetically when Molly waves him away, flustered. She leaves them alone as soon as possible.

"You can be nicer to her." John doesn't mean to say it, but the words are out before he can stop them. Sherlock doesn't look up from the microscope; for all he knows, Sherlock didn't even hear him. Sighing, John checks to see what's on the table of the microscope - it's a bit of the gray mucus he'd collected from the body.

"An interesting question you posed earlier. If smoke inhalation is the cause of death, why would the body be deposited near the river? Answer: it was meant to be found, not burned up."

"You don't think that was the cause of death."

Sherlock looks up at this. No one, except perhaps his brother, has been able to keep up with him, and yet here is a man who is a step ahead. "Obvious." John purses his lips.

"Then what is?"

"I may be able to find something in the sample you provided, but there is no guarantee it will produce results. Most likely we will need to examine the body more closely. Perhaps Molly will have some insight. She is quite competent at her job." Sherlock studiously avoids John's eyes as he says this last bit, assuming John will look smug or say "I told you so." He does neither, just sits a little down the table and waits.

Extraordinary.

Approximately half an hour later, Sherlock has no new information and sends John to find Molly. He finds her in the mortuary and watches her for a moment. She performs her work with a brisk efficiency that John appreciates as a medical professional.

"Miss Hooper?" he calls quietly but she still jumps at the sound of his voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you... Sherlock was asking for you."

"Really?" Her eyes brighten and her smile widens. John wonders if there's some history there or if Molly's simply harboring a crush. He really couldn't blame her for it if she is. She finishes her task quickly but correctly, then hurries off, apparently forgetting about John. Shaking his head, he sets off for the lab. It's not the first time he's been forgotten.

On his way back to the lab, John encounters Mike Stamford, an old friend and former classmate. They chat amiably for a moment, making indefinite plans to get coffee and catch up soon.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock demands as soon as John enters the lab. "Molly got here before you. Did she leave you to fend for yourself?" Molly blushes, realizing she did just that.

"Saw a mate from when I trained here. Stopped for a chat." John groans as he sits; his leg is starting to ache.

"Don't sit, we're leaving. The body won't be ready for some time." Sherlock pulls on his coat and wraps his scarf around his neck. It's sexier than it should be. John mentally shakes himself. _Married to his work, remember?_ Sherlock swoops out of the room, John following, leaning more heavily on his cane than earlier in the day. He wonders if Sherlock realizes he's slowed down his stride to keep pace with John. Probably not. _Reading too much into things again, Watson._

The cab ride back to Baker Street, however, is charged with something that wasn't there earlier. Sherlock feels it and squirms a little, unfamiliar with the feeling. John pointedly ignores it, the same way he ignores the looks Sherlock is giving him every few moments. He refuses to let himself hope, to even consider the possibility of him and Sherlock as a couple. They'd barely met when Sherlock made his stance on relationships and his disdain for them very clear. Who is he to attempt to change someone's mind?


	5. Chapter 5

John is sure he's never seen anyone exit a car as fast as Sherlock does when they arrive at the flat. He's quite certain the car hadn't stopped before the consulting detective wrenched the door open and propelled himself onto the pavement. Stuck with the bill, John dithers around in his wallet for a moment before he finds a £ 50 note that definitely hadn't been there this morning. He pays the cabbie the fee with a soft smile on his face, one he's sure the cabbie is interpreting in the entirely wrong way.

John simply can't bring himself to care.

When he finally arrives in the flat properly, John finds Sherlock supine on the couch, hands pressed together, tips of his long fingers just touching his chin. John removes his jacket and forcefully keeps his eyes away from the long, lean lines of his flatmate and the crown of dark curls spraying untidy across the pale forehead. He certainly doesn't notice one deep breath is enough to pop all the buttons on Sherlock's shirt.

Tea. He needs tea.

Finally having motivation to move somewhere helps. It's not until he's rummaging through the cabinets looking for mugs that he realizes this place feels like home. His hands still around what he thinks is a jar of fingernail clippings.

_Home._

What an odd sensation. His army bedsit isn't what he'd call home unless forced, and his tent in Afghanistan was a far cry from anything resembling what the word home brought to mind. Even before that, living with Harry and his parents - surely that house had felt like home. Certainly it wouldn't now, though. He'd been a nomad ever since the night he and Harry had been thrown out - Harry for loving Clara, John for being on his sister's side. And yet he's spent a total of what, maybe 20 minutes in the flat? He's not even seen the bedrooms. Something, though, has taken root in his soul and is telling him this is where he needs to be. He shakes his head, smiling. Christ that sounds trite, even in his head.

It does not, however, make it any less true.

"Shall I reach something for you, doctor?"

John is certain his heart is not supposed to stop beating like that. He's also quite sure knees are supposed to hold their owner upright, not turn to jelly when a tall, handsome detective reaches up to grab a mug. If he turns his head just slightly to the left, he'll have a face full of silk shirt and pale chest and while this is something he does, in fact, want very much, it seems a touch forward when he is positive the attention would be unwanted.

Sherlock peels himself away from John's back, triumphantly hoisting two mugs in one large hand. One is blue and white with stripes, the other is patterned with umbrellas. When Sherlock sees John staring at the patterned one, he grins for a moment.

"Knicked it from Mycroft when he was being annoying. It's his favourite. He still has no idea what happened to it." John chuckles at the wicked glint in Sherlock's light eyes. He potters around, searching for a kettle (on top of the fridge), tea bags (in a bread bin), sugar (under the sink), and two spoons (in the silverware drawer, and John is surprised that he's surprised). Sherlock retires to the sofa, bored with mundane domesticity, but shouts ideas about the case and abuse about people at the Yard, someone named Anderson in particular. Mostly John listens without comment, trying to make himself at home. He'll feel better once he's moved in his few belongings. Speaking of, he still needs to see that bedroom...

"John, are you listening?" Sherlock snaps as John lowers himself into the chair across from the sofa. He freezes, considers lying, and then decides against it, as Sherlock would know anyway.

"No, sorry, I was busy. Drink your tea." John sinks back into the cushion, cup and saucer in one hand, settling his cane in the other, and relishing the look on Sherlock's face. It's a mixture of confusion, irritation, and shrewd interest. He does, however, take a small sip and John counts this as a victory. Sherlock had eaten little that night when they went to Angelo's - Christ was that only last night? - and it's clear that was a regular occurrence. Somehow, though, he doesn't exhibit the signs of the malnourished. John cocks his head to one side, studying Sherlock with a doctor's eye. Terribly thin, but no swollen abdomen. Reaction time seems normal - well, faster than normal, but malnutrition causes _slower _ reaction times. The skin doesn't look abnormally dry, though he'd have to have a closer look to be sure. And wouldn't that be -

John shakes himself mentally. If he's going to live and work with Sherlock Holmes, his schoolboy crush would need to take a permanent backseat. Rising from his reverie, he glances at Sherlock's mug - empty. John permits himself a small grin as he finishes his own tea and waits for the genius to rise again.

It's not until John wakes from a doze that he realizes it's almost 2am. He recounts where his time has gone - they'd met here at the flat 7 in the evening, then Lestrade had arrived soon after. Crime scene, Bart's, back to the flat... blimey. He's not as young as he used to be. Sherlock has disappeared from the sofa, presumably to his room - his _furnished _ room.

Bollocks.

Preparing himself for a night on the couch, John looks around the flat and is surprised to see his own luggage by the stairs to the second bedroom. Curious, he ascends the stairs to find a small but tidy room at the top. His clothes have been unpacked, as well as his laptop and other accoutrements. He wonders where his gun ended up, but is too tired to do any searching. Pulling off his clothes, he falls into bed and a dreamless sleep - the first since returning from Afghanistan.

It's only a few hours later that John wakes with a start and sees a dark shadow at the foot of his bed. Disoriented, he yelps, scrabbling for his gun even though he hasn't the faintest inkling as to where it might be in his new room.

"I solved it."

Sherlock's deep voice penetrates the fog around John's brain and he stills, remembering where he is. Also that he's sleeping only in his pants.

"Solved..."

"Yes, John. The man who was in the fire? Easy, really, once Molly let me see the body."

"When did you - "

"She texted me around midnight and told me she was ready. I left immediately."

"Without me."

"You'd only have fallen asleep at Bart's. I assume you were more comfortable here in your own bed."

John can't deny that. He'd spent his share of nights in classrooms and on call rooms at Bart's and isn't keen to do it again.

"So it's done? The woman is safe?" John throws back the covers and goes to his chest of drawers for new clothes. With his back turned, he doesn't see the lingering, heated gaze Sherlock levels at his near-naked body. Quicksilver eyes travel up muscled calves to a slim waist and well-defined shoulders. Sherlock's blood runs hot watching the play of muscles in John's arms as he dons a t-shirt and jeans. Then he remembers the question John asked, and his face falls. He'd forgotten to call. The body had been so fascinating, the crime so elegant...

"Sherlock? You did make sure she's safe, didn't you?" John's voice is hard, a note of something Sherlock hasn't heard there before running as an undercurrent.

"I was about to. I wanted you to be present when it occurs." Sherlock lies too easily. He couldn't bear to see the look on John's face that he's seen on so many others - disappointment. It's never bothered him before, what people think. There have been so many other times when he's done or said something that seems natural to him but is clearly not socially acceptable. Lestrade has made that face more times than Sherlock can count, but it's never been a problem. With John, though, it feels different.

"I'm present now, Sherlock! Call him and make sure she's okay!" John yells, and Sherlock flinches out of his reverie.

"I'll get Lestrade in on a three-way call. I'm doing it!" Sherlock protests as John advances, desperate not to be in close proximity until he understands more fully what his body is feeling. He notices, however, that the fire in John's eyes is not just anger - it's a primal heat that Sherlock's brain understands as attraction.

Intriguing.

"It's solved." Sherlock grates into the phone when Lestrade picks up. "Calling him now."

Sherlock puts the call on speaker so John can hear without standing pressed up next to him. Then he paces the living room, waiting for someone to answer. John stands behind his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

Three rings.

Four.

Five.

"About out of time, aren't you, Sherlock?" The woman's voice crackles through the connection. Sherlock breathes a silent sigh of relief while John scrubs a hand down his face, tension leaving his shoulders in minute increments. His lips, however, remain pursed. Sherlock could spend the entire day looking at John's lips, studying them, experimenting when how they move within different emotions, moods -

"It's solved." Sherlock runs through the finer details at a pace with which John can't keep up. Of course, he doesn't try very hard. His chest tightens and his breath comes in odd pants - the makings of a panic attack. Tuning out Sherlock's lightning-fast deductions, he calls up from the dredges of his memory some breathing exercises from what seems like another lifetime when he took some yoga classes. He concentrates on filling his lungs and breathing to the tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet. Slowly, the band of tension around John's chest loosens and his heart stops pounding. When Sherlock stops speaking, there's a deafening silence on the other end of the line until finally:

"I'm at Grosvenor Square and I think I'm wearing _bombs_ ..." the woman bursts into tears and Lestrade reassures her that he and his team will be there within minutes. The policeman ends the call abruptly, but Sherlock and John stay on the line until they hear the sirens in the background. Once they're sure Lestrade has her, Sherlock disconnects the call.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock doesn't make eye contact when he asks the question, but John can tell by the tension in his shoulders that Sherlock was worried for him. "You looked - "

"I'm fine, yeah. Thanks. Nothing a cup of tea won't fix." John says with false cheeriness. Sherlock is not convinced, but only narrows his eyes and says nothing.

John, preoccupied with the phone call and the near-panic attack, doesn't notice his cane is still upstairs in his bedroom, forgotten.

Sherlock watches John through narrowed eyes. He'd been correct, of course, about the limp being psychosomatic. Right now, however, he's less interested in gloating than he is about what had happened not ten minutes ago. During the phone call, he'd noticed the change in John's breathing, had known a panic attack was imminent, and his first instinct was to drop the phone and help calm his -

His what? Colleague? Flatmate?

Friend?

He shakes himself mentally. He's Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't need friends. The only thing that matters is the work.

At least, that's what he tries to convince himself of as he watches John move easily through the kitchen, comfortable even though it's only his second or third time in it. For a moment, Sherlock let himself wonder what it would be like to be in a relationship, to allow himself to be ruled by emotion instead of reason, to be half of a whole instead of a solitary figure.

Too risky.

No, remaining detached is vastly preferable.

So when John glances up and meets his eyes, he ignores the rush of warmth in his stomach. When John smiles at him, Sherlock fights the absurd urge to smile back. The tea John places at his elbow is ignored, but John doesn't get upset. The older man lowers himself stiffly to the couch, flicks on the telly, and leans back with a sigh. He'll be asleep in less than 25 minutes, by Sherlock's estimation.

He's correct, of course. Sherlock finds the occasional snore far too endearing and unfolds himself from the window ledge. He strides purposefully across the living room towards his bedroom, but glances toward the sleeping man on the couch and stops in his tracks. John looks younger, softer, when he sleeps. Vulnerable. A wayward lock of hair has tumbled across the lined forehead, and Sherlock finds himself brushing it away gently before he can stop himself. John stretches his neck toward the touch, trying to remain in contact, but Sherlock snaps his hand away and flees from the room. He crawls under his sheets, still fully clothed, and closes his eyes, building up his walls again.

Alone is what he has.

Alone protects him.

A phone is ringing incessantly.

It's not his phone; it doesn't make that noise. Nor does Sherlock's.

Shit. Shit shit shit it's The Phone.

He refuses to consider what might happen if it's not answered. Heaving himself off the couch, he scurries around in an attempt to find the device. Sherlock, clearly in a similar mindset, charges out of his room wearing only his trousers from the night before, curls forming a wild crown around his pale face. He fishes the phone out of the pocket of his coat and swipes at the screen to answer the call. John holds his breath, staring at Sherlock. The detective is pale, but looks like he may have slept a few hours.

"Caught you sleeping, did I, Sherlock?"

John tastes bile at the back of his throat. He can't have done... this is too much, even for him.

Pale, sharp eyes meet blue. Wait, Sherlock's seem to say. Wait until it's over. John nods once, jaw clenched.

"Must keep the strength up for our game." Sherlock quips.

"Hope you got plenty of rest, because today you have 12 hours to solve what I've left for you. I don't need to tell you what happens if you're too late, do I?"

"Certainly not."

"Ta ta, then." And the line goes dead.

"Children? He's kidnapping children now?"

"Evidently." Sherlock methodically checks his messages, his email, the news. His voice is carefully blank, unemotional. Sherlock's phone rings just as John opens his mouth to say some decidedly awful things. "Lestrade."

John's fists clench and unclench while he waits for Sherlock to get off the phone and tell him something. The little girl's voice from the phone echoes in his ears and threatens to drown him. Finally, Sherlock ends the call, sets his phone on the arm of the chair, crosses his legs, and steeples his fingers under his chin. And says nothing.

"Well?"

"Thinking."

"Thin-" John splutters, and the dam cracks. He crosses the room in a burst of furious energy and leans down into the detective's long face, hands on the arms of the chair. "This is not a game anymore, Holmes. There is a child at risk. You need to let me help. It's not about cleverness, or glory, or whatever. She needs to be found."

John's harsh breathing is the only sound in the flat. They stare at each other, both surprised at John's outburst. Then John's gaze drops to Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock unconsciously moves toward him.

Sherlock's phone rings again, breaking the spell. John shoves away from the chair, scrubbing a hand over his face as he stalks to his bedroom. He manages to keep from slamming the door like he wants to, but paces furiously through the small space. He's angry at Sherlock, at himself, at whoever rang Sherlock's mobile right at that moment, at the mysterious criminal for getting him into this situation. Muttering to himself about tall, handsome gits, he sits heavily on the bed and looks toward the window.

His cane is leaning up against the sill.

He's been without it the entire day.

Because of the case, he hasn't even thought about it. Because of the adrenaline, the breakneck pace at which they've been going.

Because of Sherlock.

For long moments he sits, staring at the cane, realizing what it means.

"Bollocks."


	6. Chapter 6

A sudden stillness falls throughout the flat. Sherlock closes his eyes, knows John has found the discarded cane he abandoned in his room in a burst of adrenaline. He can almost feel John considering the precise ramifications of this particular turn of events.

Minutes drag out like hours, but Sherlock keeps his vigil. He barely breathes for fear of -

Fear of what? That John won't want him? Romantically or platonically, John will always want him, surely. Look where it's gotten him already. While it may take him some time to decide what he'll ultimately do, he'll remain at Baker Street and he will continue to be indispensable.

God, Sherlock, listen to yourself. You've known the man for a matter of days and you're already -

He hears footsteps above, John rattling around his bedroom, the second one he'd said of course they'd need. Not pacing, no, the steps aren't measured enough. It sounds as though he's taking a few steps towards the cane, then away, then more towards, then back to the door. Sherlock's eyes begin to move with the sound, tracing a visual path to match the aural. When he's standing exactly next to the window, Sherlock's heart stops, wondering, but then he hears a well-executed military turn, confident steps across the floorboards.

Moments later, John appears at the bottom of the stairs, cane in hand, no sign of a limp. Sherlock represses a grin when John places the cane gently on top of the mantle along with the skull. He then beats a hasty retreat to the kitchen, where he loudly makes tea and hopes Sherlock won't want to discuss The Cane Incident anytime soon. Obviously Sherlock understood the message, but he's certain HE doesn't want to discuss any potential underlying meanings, and Sherlock probably doesn't have any emotional investment in him beyond as a flatmate and perhaps an occasional partner in crime solving.

But what about that moment...

A phone ringing blessedly stops that thought before it goes any further. Sherlock's deep voice answering steadies him, and he pours the tea with hands that don't shake. He sits in what he now considers his chair while Sherlock listens to whomever is on the other end of the phone. If he notices that Sherlock hasn't taken his eyes off of him since he re-entered the living room, he doesn't dwell on it.

"We're on our way." Sherlock snaps into the phone, just as John takes his first sip of tea. "Come on, John, Lestrade has a lead."

John looks at him incredulously, holding out the teacup, but Sherlock is already donning his coat and winding his scarf around his pale neck. At the look on John's face, one side of his mouth quirks up in what could be described as a smile. "Drink up - the game's afoot." He vanishes down the stairs towards the front door, probably to hail at taxi. Blinking, John tries to gulp down the rest of his tea while putting on his coat. Succeeding with only a couple of drops down his front, he hurtles down the seventeen steps to the front door, where Sherlock is holding a taxi door open for him. John grins, and revels in the harsh intake of breath he hears when he brushes closer to Sherlock than usual when entering the car.

Lestrade calls again on their way to Scotland Yard and tells them to meet him elsewhere - Donovan seems to think she's found something. Sherlock does not even try to hold back a snort of derision at that, but he relays the address to the driver nonetheless. He settles back into the seat, grumbling. John chuckles, patting Sherlock's thigh soothingly before he can stop himself. At the touch, Sherlock stiffens, but relaxes almost instantly. John leaves his hand there for a moment longer than is strictly proper for just friends, but the taxi is pulling up to the address and there's no time to think about it, much less discuss it.

They stand on the sidewalk outside a large brick house while Sherlock gazes around, eyes narrowed, deducing, observing. John looks around as well, searching for Lestrade. For what could be a crime scene, it's quiet. The neighborhood is hushed, children already in bed, parents in living rooms, luxuriating in the silence. Windows glow with light from TVs, illuminating well-kept lawns and gardens.

"Incoming." Sherlock mutters, and John's attention snaps back to the house in front of them, out of which Lestrade and Donovan emerge. Tension radiates off of Sherlock, and it's not Lestrade that's causing it, so it must be the woman. John wishes he could touch Sherlock to help calm him, aches to do it, in fact. Instead, he shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket and wonders if Sherlock would be able to figure what he was thinking.

"Well?" Sherlock bites out when Lestrade and Donovan are within hearing distance.

"A girl was kidnapped from here earlier today." Lestrade begins, and when Sherlock tries to intervene, holds up a hand. "I realize girls are kidnapped every day, but this one seems different. The family was told to get in touch with you. They didn't, I know. I spoke to them. They said when they called the police, a man answered. Wouldn't take any information, just said to get in touch with Sherlock Holmes. Young man, Irish accent."

Both John and Sherlock jerk like an electric shock went through them.

"Him."

"How?"

"Never mind how. What else, Lestrade?"

"That's it. Just gave the parents your number and hung up. When they called back, they got to us."

"And what does Donovan think she's found?"

"Wait, Sherlock. Are we supposed to be finding the girl or is there something else we should be looking into? That's how it's been before. Then he'll tell us where she is when we - well, you - figure it out." John puts a restraining hand on Sherlock's arm before he goes barreling into the house to scour it for leads. Sherlock looks down at John, a calculating gaze, as if seeing something there for the first time.

"Yes, yes exactly, John. He's using a child because its loss appeals to a baser instinct to protect. The search for the child will throw us off the actual case he wants solved so we are unable to solve it in the time allotted. But what is the real puzzle?" Sherlock's not talking to anyone else in the group; it's all for John.

"All the rest of the cases have been less than sensational. Should be looking for something - " John starts, but The Phone pings with an incoming message. Sherlock quickly extracts it from one of the pockets of his long coat, unlocks it, and brings it down to a level where he and John can both look. Unseen by either, Lestrade's eyebrows shoot up into his hair at this selfless act. Donovan rolls her eyes, bored.

There's a text message - "Wrong!" - and a picture message of a man lying in what looked to be a ditch, several bloody gashes on his head. His face was not obscured, so he could easily be identified. That, of course, is not the mystery. First, they have to figure out where he is. Sherlock enlarges the picture, drags it so he can look at the dirt and the grass around the body. Within moments he has a location.

"Lestrade, your keys."

"Then how are we supposed to get back?"

"There are two cars here, I assume they belong to you and Donovan?" Sherlock speaks slowly, as if to a child, and quirks a saucy eyebrow, holding out a hand. Lestrade flushes, grumbles at being caught out in something so obvious while John covers a laugh with a bit of a cough. With a jingle of keys and a swish of Sherlock's coat, John and Sherlock are ensconced in Lestrade's Audi and off into the night.

The drive is mostly silent, both men deep in thought. It's not a long trip, but it's companionable, intimate. Sherlock pulls the car off the road just outside of the city. It's mostly fields and lovely rolling hills out here, with copses of trees sprouting every so often. John hasn't the slightest idea how Sherlock knew they'd find the body here, but after only a minimal amount of searching they find it, cleverly hidden away from the road where only someone who was actually looking for it would check. John holds the flashlight while Sherlock looks over the body. He does a quick sweep of the body, finds some flecks of blood, hums to himself. After a few minutes his hands still, and he looks up into the distance.

"No, Sherlock, we can't take that to Bart's." Sherlock looks at him sharply. John shrugs. "It's Lestrade's car."

Sherlock huffs out a laugh, straightens, and pulls out his phone to call Lestrade. "Yes we found the body; we need to get it back to Bart's."

John shines the flashlight around the general area, looking for footprints, dropped wallet, anything. Though he's not so lucky, he does find a good deal of flattened grass. He grabs Sherlock's hand to pull him over to see if he could make anything of it. Though Sherlock is still on the phone, his eyes flick over the ground, trying to see a pattern. As he's ending the call, he finds something. Crouching down, he beckons for the flashlight. John is immediately next to him, and he sees the heel print in the swiftly hardening mud.

"Could it be -"

"Doubtful. He doesn't seem like the type to get his hands dirty." Sherlock is trying to get a good picture of the ground in the full dark. "Could you..."

John crouches down next to Sherlock, knees bumping together. He hopes the same darkness keeping Sherlock from getting a good photo hides the blush that rushes up his cheeks at the contact. God, he's acting like a horny schoolboy. He leans forward, backlighting the print, then holding the light directly over it. Eventually Sherlock puts his phone away, satisfied. He stands, then holds out a hand to help John to his feet. Grateful, John grabs it and pulls himself up, where he finds himself very, very close to Sherlock. Looking up, he finds Sherlock peering at him like a science project. His eyes travel over every inch of John's face, and there's a vulnerability, a softness, in them that makes John's stomach clench. Unconsciously, he licks his lips and a new expression comes over Sherlock's face - hunger. He drops his gaze to John's lips, and John is suddenly extremely aware that their hands are still entwined.

"John, I -" Sherlock's heads drops inexorably down towards John's. Instead of their lips meeting, Sherlock rests his forehead against John's. "I don't understand what I'm feeling." he breathes. John raises the hand not holding Sherlock's and brushes his thumb gently against one of those extraordinary cheekbones.

"I know. It's okay." He pulls Sherlock's head down into the crook of his neck and hugs him. Sherlock relaxes against John's body, breathing out a sigh of - well, John's not sure what it is, but it feels like it comes from the bottom of his soul. They hear a car coming along the road and break apart slowly, gently. Before Sherlock releases John's hand, he squeezes, and says, "At home."

And it's enough.


	7. Chapter 7

John and Sherlock slowly climb the small rise to the road to meet the cars. Lestrade arrives first, driving Sally's car. Sally is in the passenger seat, looking disgruntled and uncomfortable at not being allowed to drive her own vehicle. An ambulance follows behind, no flashing lights or sirens. A couple of medics climb out of the back, carrying a stretcher. Before breaking away from Sherlock to guide the medics to the body, he touches Sherlock's elbow, asking if he needs to check anything else around the scene before it is cleared. Sherlock, already speaking quietly and urgently to Lestrade, waves his hands in the generally accepted "go ahead" gesture. John approaches the two - very young, he notices - ambulance crew members, introduces himself, and leads them to the corpse. They all lean slightly on each other while clambering down the small but fairly steep hill while juggling the stretcher and other equipment. John watches carefully as they transfer the body, strap it down, and is relieved to see the kids seem to know what they're doing. He lends a hand getting everything back up to the road and into the back of the ambulance. He can feel Sherlock watching him, charting his every movement, always deducing, always thinking. Studiously he ignores Sherlock, concentrating on getting the ambulance ready to get on the road back to Bart's. They'll have plenty of time to talk in the car, if Sherlock wants to talk about what happened. It's only after the vehicle speeds out of sight that John remembers they're on a time limit, and makes his way back to Sherlock's side.

Sherlock knows the moment John returns to his side. An electric shock runs through him, at once calming and invigorating him. His mind moves faster, makes connections easier - all because one man stands next to him. John stands quietly, hands clasped behind his back, gazing around the clearing, but Sherlock knows he's scanning for anything unusual.

"Can you show me where the body was?" Lestrade asks, pocketing the pen and small notebook in which he's been jotting down notes. Sherlock nods ones, then sweeps away, leaving Lestrade to scamper after him.

Insects drone quietly in the trees behind them, keeping things from being suffocatingly quiet.

"You'd do well to stay away from him, you know." Sally's voice cuts through the dark, scathing and sneering.

John purses his lips. "Why's that, then?"

"He's a freak. You've seen him. Knows things he shouldn't know. And isn't exactly a joy to be around either." She doesn't catch his eyes while she speaks. John stays silent, waiting to see if she'll say more. The return of Sherlock and Lestrade breaks the tense silence. Sherlock goes immediately to Lestrade's car without indicating John should follow. John looks to Lestrade. who jerks his head toward his car. Waving, John jogs to the car before Sherlock can drive away without him.

It's not long before Sherlock speaks.

"What did she say to you?" His voice is casual, but a current of tension crackles underneath the bored veneer. John hears the squeak of leather as Sherlock's knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, waiting for what he thinks is the inevitable conversation about John leaving. He wonders how many of these talks he's had over the years, and feels a pang of sorrow, quickly followed by a rush of possessive joy that he will be the one to stay, to prove Sherlock wrong for once.

"That I should stay away from you." John says simply. "That you're a freak. That you know things you shouldn't know." He toys with the seatbelt for a moment before he continues. "Ashamed, I imagine, of something you said about her."

"I brought to light her ongoing affair with Anderson."

"Who, I gather, is married?"

"Oh, yes."

"And you brought this to light rather publicly, I take it."

"At a crime scene. They were wearing the same deodorant."

John waits for him to elaborate, a smile growing on his face. "And?"

Sherlock sighs, irritated at John's need for details. "I mentioned to Anderson that his deodorant is for men. When he said yes of course it is I'm wearing it, I said so is Sergeant Donovan." This time he gives details before John can ask for them. "As I was going into the crime scene I said I was sure that Sally just stopped by for a quick word, and also scrubbed the floors of his apartment, going by the state of her knees."

There is a brief moment of shocked silence before John howls with laughter. It bubbles up out of him without any hesitation, pure and joyful, and it even makes Sherlock smile.

"Now about the case, John, I'll need to be at Bart's for much of the rest of the night." He hesitates while John wipes his eyes of tears. A question he's never asked anyone hovers about his lips. "Would you prefer to join me or shall I deliver you to the flat?"

John considers this. While his first inclination is to not be away from Sherlock's side for even a moment, he doesn't want to seem... clingy. He grimaces at the word. Certainly Sherlock doesn't need him there to do his experiments and tests, and he doesn't seem the type to want company. From what he's gathered from all the unsolicited comments and advice, Sherlock is a man unto himself and what other people want or think doesn't particularly bother him.

He realizes that his silence is beginning to stretch into the uncomfortable, and makes his decision. "I'll join you, if it's not too much trouble."

Sherlock's remark is prompt and certainly planned. "I wouldn't have asked if it was too much trouble."

John chuckles, then bites his lip. "What happened back there - "

"I don't - "

"I know you don't. But we're going to." John waits for another protest, but Sherlock just tightens his jaw, keeping his eyes resolutely on the road. "You looked - "

"Like I was going to kiss you, yes. It is not often I wish to do that. I understand doing so involves emotions. As we are cohabitating for the foreseeable future, I would prefer to understand what precisely I am feeling before disclosing my findings to you." Sherlock speaks quickly and with great urgency. John wonders how often he's had to make a speech like that one, and how often time to figure out what's going on in his own head has been denied him.

"You can have as much time as you need, Sherlock." John says quietly. He hears a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the car, as if Sherlock was expecting John to force him to tell him everything - and perhaps he was. "Emotions aren't a crime scene. You can't deduce them quite so easily. I understand and accept that. Tell me when you're ready." Without thinking about it, he places a hand on Sherlock's thigh, giving it a light, reassuring squeeze. He's surprised when Sherlock takes one of his own aristocratic hands and places it over John's, threading their fingers together. Eyes glued to the road, Sherlock speaks a little haltingly.

"I know that I am attracted to you, not just physically. You may not be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable." On the last three words, he catches John's eyes.

It takes a moment for John to understand. When he does, his face softens, and Sherlock actually smiles - a real, proper smile. They spend the remainder of the trip chatting aimlessly, keeping the real world, and the deadly game they're tied up in, at bay for just a little longer.


	8. Chapter 8

As they come nearer and nearer to the hospital, Sherlock speaks less, pays less attention to what john is saying, and seems altogether apart from what's happening in the car. John ignores the twinge of jealousy he feels - how can he be jealous of a case? A dead man? A lunatic? While they are, in fact, taking Sherlock's attention away from him, they're also a lot of what make Sherlock the man he is - cool and aloof like a cat, skittish until he trusts you, and even then...

Wrapped in his ponderings, it takes John more than a few moments to notice that he's exited the car and is following Sherlock's billowing footsteps towards the morgue. Somehow, in his infinite grace, he trips over a pebble - or perhaps his own foot - and almost goes down entirely, but strong arms life him up and set him to rights.

"I heard your walking pattern alter a few moments before you fell." Sherlock whispers, using most of his willpower not to run his hands over every inch of John's body to make sure nothing is damaged. John feels the tightening of the long-fingered hands on his biceps, and involuntarily flexes. He sees Sherlock's pupils blow wide and their breaths are mingling -

"Oi, gents!" Lestrade's voice pierces the air, shattering the moment. After one last searching glance, Sherlock releases John and sweeps inside, turning his coat collar up against the world.

"Sorry, mate. I didn't realize - " Lestrade catches up with John as they prepare to enter the building.

"Nothing happening, Greg." John clasps his hands behind his back, and rocks back on his heels, pursing his lips. There are only a few reactions Lestrade could have after what he'd witnessed, and John thinks he's prepared for any of them.

He's not.

"Be careful with him, mate." John's gaze snaps to Lestrade's face, which is irritatingly impassive, even having made such a pronouncement. Sensing John's eyes on him, Lestrade chuckles. "I know he doesn't seem fragile. Somehow you know him better than any of us do. Only took you a couple of days to get in there. You're stuck with him now, I'm afraid."

John huffs out a low laugh, watches thoughtfully as Lestrade strides away down the hall. Needing a moment alone, he turns back to the outdoors, tipping his head back, and marveling at the number of stars he can see, being in the middle of London and all.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" A shiver shakes John down to his soul, and he knows he is lost. His eyelids flutter closed, basking in the glow of the brand-new feeling. He hears the whisper of expensive fabrics rustling together, the crunch of well-shod feet, and feels the warmth of Sherlock's body long before they're close enough to touch each other.

Sherlock notices the shiver, and for one wild moment thinks John might simply be cold, might not be feeling these...emotions. Fortunately, deductive reasoning wins out and continues on the path he doesn't consciously remember choosing. If he believed in that sort of thing, he might say the path that had long ago been chosen for him.

The anticipation is too much for John. He turns on his heel, and finds Sherlock frozen perhaps an arm's length away. They breathe in the starlight, hearts beating too fast, both unwilling to be the first to cross the chasm. Sherlock, ever the aristocrat, stands straight, heels together, fighting to keep the passive, thoughtful look on his face as natural as possible. He is, in John's opinion, failing miserably.

"Oh for fuck's - " John mutters, and steps across the gap. In on motion, he is Sherlock's space, grasping dark curls, and gently, firmly, guiding Sherlock's lips to his. When their lips finally - finally! - meet, there is a breath where their eyes lock, and they both grin, and Sherlock's arms are pulling John in tighter than he's ever wanted anyone and John's hand is sliding to the nape of Sherlock's neck through tumbling curls...

A cruel wind whips through the parking lot, fluttering the tails of Sherlock's coat and wrenching both men back to their reality. Almost back. Sherlock lifts his head from John's reluctantly.

"I figured out the connection." Sherlock whispers after a moment.

"You weren't with the body long enough to figure anything out." John protests, already knowing he's wrong.

"Really, John, it's as if you don't even know me." Sherlock grins, tightening his grip on John, who has no intention of going anywhere. He waits, knowing eventually he'll get an explanation. When he cranes his neck to watch Sherlock's face as he flits through his deductions, he finds a small, intimate smile resting cozily on Sherlock's lips. Just as he's lifting up on his toes, just as he's running a hand up Sherlock's lean jest to rest against his pale jaw, just as Sherlock spreads his hand across the back of John's neck, Lestrade bursts out of the hospital, panic, grief, horror, all standing stark on his face.

"Sherlock!" he tries to shout, but his voice breaks. Knowing he won't get the word unstuck from his throat, he instead sprints to the corner of the parking lot where shadows cling to the two men he seeks.

"John." Easier to say. Lestrade gets this name out with much less trouble, and he sees and understands the annoyed look on John's face when he registers the interruption. When he sees Lestrade, however, really sees him, all irritation disappears.

"Christ, Greg, what happened?" John breaks free of Sherlock's embrace and crosses the distance to Lestrade. Greg can't explain. He simply says, "Come." A fleeting glance back to Sherlock is all it takes to get moving. Lestrade moves like a man in a dense fog - slowly, seemingly unsure of where he's going or from where he came. Eventually, they make it to a small office. There is another officer John doesn't recognize at the shabby desk, empty of anything but a phone and a tape recorder. They crowd in, and only then does John notice the same consternation on the officer's face that had lined Lestrade's in the parking lot.

"What's happened? Why aren't you with - " Sherlock starts, but seems to answer himself before Lestrade can. "No. He wouldn't. I - "

"Listen." Lestrade chokes out, and nods to the officer. He nods, paler than ever. He presses a button, and the tape rewinds quickly, then stops. He presses another button.

"We know where you are, love, just wait for the officers to find you, okay?" Lestrade's recorded voice fills the small room.

"Okay. The other man won't come back, right?" a small voice answers shakily.

"No. We'll never let him get to you again."

"He had mean eyes. They were black and angry - "

"Don't say anything else! Not a word!" Lestrade's voice shouts, but it'e too late. A single shot is heard, then silence. "Hello? Hello? Fucking - "

The recording stops. A tear trickles down the pale cheeks of the unknown officer. John is in shock. He whirls on Sherlock.

"You said you solved it." He doesn't yell. There's no point. His voice shakes with the effort of not yelling. He tells himself there's no point. "You. Said - "

"I know what I said, John, and it was true. I did solve it. That's why they could find her. Why she could speak. And then she said too much. She'd seen his face. This one he did personally. Why? For everyone else he had a lackey." He paces from one wall to the other, fingers steepled under his chin. John gives up on that avenue for help.

"We should've been here." He speaks low to Lestrade, knowing annoying Sherlock will be more of a hindrance than helpful, not matter how he wants to lash out at whatever - whomever - he can find.

"Wouldn't have helped, John." Lestrade's voice is hoarse, unshed tears making it difficult to speak. "No one was close enough to do anything. He must'v ehad the sniper on her even after he hung up to make sure she didn't - " he breaks off, unable to voice the horrifying truth. "She just... she just said..."

"I know, Greg. I can't believe we failed." John sits on a corner of the desk, eyes mapping Sherlock's every movement. His steps have slowed, hands tighter together, left lower eyelid beginning to twitch - likely close to figuring something out.

Sherlock hasn't figured anything out. He is feeling too many things to think properly. He's considering the pleasures of kissing John. He's also contemplating the fact that he is affected by the death of this girl in a way that is unprecedented. He is hurt. He's angry. He has span feelings about this. It his exhausting. He sneaks glances at John during his pacing. Should he be upset at this destruction of the carefully constructed walls around his heart? He's certainly not glad of it, but it is an interesting sensation. Perhaps worthy of further exploration. He sees the expression on John's face, and his heart skips a beat. The empathy stirs something in Sherlock's deeply recessed soul. Looking at this miracle of a man, he knows a new truth.

The work is no longer all that's necessary.


End file.
